The Handler
by MissMollyBloom
Summary: When Sherlock goes off the radar during an undercover assignment in Las Vegas, Mycroft assigns him a handler in Molly Hooper. But soon their cover-story causes more complications than either of them could predict - for the case as well as for their relationship.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So here I go with a third multi-chapter WiP. Am I crazy? You betcha!

This one's been floating around in my head for a while. Silly, silly crack.  
I've cut off the chapter just before the sexy stuff starts, mostly because I need to get up the nerve to write it! If there are any goddesses of Sherlolly sexytimes willing to give me some writing advice, please let me know (you know who you are...)!

* * *

Sherlock didn't want to be in Las Vegas. Everything about it was the opposite of the London that he loved. The lights. The noise. The Americans.

But Mycroft needed someone to infiltrate a money laundering ring that had been flooding England with counterfeit hundred pound bills.

So that's how Sherlock ended up spending a month undercover in the underbelly of Nevada's premiere gaming establishments under the guise of Bill Grey, potential London backer of Austin Henderson's latest exports to the UK.

One month away from London.

One month of playing poker nightly, losing just enough so as not to raise any alarm bells, but winning enough to wipe the smug smiles off anyone who annoyed him.

One month of booze - which had never been his weakness before, but was soon becoming more of a solo habit than a social action.

One month of easy access to narcotics. And for a while, he had been able to hold his demons in check. But when placed on the spot on night by Henderson himself, Sherlock convinced himself he had no other choice but to accept the line of coke that had been offered to him.

He just didn't need the one the next night.

Or the next, especially when it was delivered to him via the oversized breasts of some anonymous call-girl at a party at Henderson's estate.

Within a two weeks, his once dormant addiction was well and truly awake.

The only consolation or justification was that Bill Grey had become accepted into Henderson's fold.

The only problem was that Henderson had provided him with a body man, Smith (not his real name) who was soon a shadow for his every move. Since then, Sherlock had no way to get in contact with Mycroft – and vice versa.

Sherlock didn't know anything about what Henderson had planned for him beyond the places Smith would drive him to. One day a strip club, the next a hidden back-room poker game, and the next he'd be at Henderson's house with all its concomitant temptations.

Without a link to London, Sherlock found himself becoming more and more like his alter-ego and less like himself. Bill Grey was the life of the party, was a friendly drunk, enjoyed the occasional lap-dance, and was careless with his poker-winnings. Unlike Sherlock, Bill Grey had never fought any battles with drug addiction and had no guilt about using socially – and increasingly in the private of his own home.

Because Bill Grey didn't have the voice of Molly Hooper in his head, or the memory of her slapping him for failing her. Bill and Molly would never meet, and Sherlock was more than fine with that.

The days blurred into one another and Sherlock didn't mind. He has a feeling of near tranquillity in not having to decide his every move. He and Smith developed a quiet rapport – bordering on trust. Sherlock was more than willing to go wherever Smith took him, no questions asked.

One evening, Smith drove him to the Bellagio, ushered him inside and rode with him in the lift to one of the upper levels.

At the door, Smith paused and handed him the key card.

"Aren't you coming in?"

"No sir, you wouldn't want me to."

"What's in here?"

"It's your weekly – appointment." Smith wouldn't look him in the eye. Sherlock started to worry about what waited for him on the other side of the door.

"Ok."

Sherlock opened the door and immediately understood the reason for Smith's awkwardness.

Standing on the other side of the room, next to the king sized bed was what Sherlock assumed could only be a high-priced escort. She stood with her back to him and didn't turn immediately when he entered the room. She was in the process of removing her waistcoat, dropping it to the ground to reveal that underneath she wore only underwear – very expensive underwear. A sheer champagne coloured satin bra, lined with matching lace. The bra was complimented by similarly styled panties and lace holsters which held her stockings in place.

Her hair was in a tight bun which she undid, letting the long chestnut hair cascade down her back.

Bill Grey was a lucky man if this was his regular Tuesday appointment.

But he wasn't Bill Grey, and despite forgetting himself in the presence of this woman, Sherlock Holmes didn't do sex – or at least hadn't for some time.

"I'm sorry – " he began before he had even formed an excuse to make her leave.

When she turned to face him, he stopped dead in his tracks.

It was Molly.

"Mo– " he began to say her name but she reached over and stopped him by placing a finger on his lips.

She wore a mask of pure seduction as she lent in to whisper something in his ear. Anyone watching would be certain she was a professional – there was no hint of the woman he worked with at Bart's, a woman he had seen with arms elbow-deep in cadavers on more occasions than he cared to count.

Her words were a warning. "They're listening," she said as quietly as possible.

In that moment Sherlock realised what was going on, what she was doing in a hotel room in Vegas clad in less clothes than he was comfortable seeing her in. She was his handler.

He closed his eyes and sent a silent curse up to Mycroft for dragging her into it.

Molly's eyes searched him for a sign he understood her meaning. Sherlock nodded and she carried on, her fingers dancing on his collar while she lent in again, her lips grazing his ear.

"I don't think they're watching," she whispered, "but we might need to be cautious."

Molly punctuated her meaning by beginning to unbutton his shirt, her lips trailing down the skin of his chest.

Sherlock's eyes closed involuntarily. He didn't want to enjoy the feeling of her hot wet mouth as much as his body clearly wanted to. In an attempt at self-control, he conjured the image of Mycroft's face the moment after punching him in it.

Molly removed Sherlock's shirt completely and headed towards the bathroom.

"Let's have a shower," she called over her shoulder.

Sherlock waited for a moment, trying to collect himself before following.

By the time he joined her the water was running and steam filled the room. Molly's undergarments lay discarded on the floor and she as wrapped in a robe.

All pretence of seduction was gone. "Strip," she ordered.

Sherlock's hand hovered over his belt.

"Do you need me to do it for you?" She said in the exasperated tone which revealed just how much her actions in the other room were for show.

Once naked, Molly ran a cursory glance over his body, her poker face better than most of the opponents he had recently faced. Then she picked up his clothes and threw them back into the bedroom, closing the door behind them.

"You could be bugged," she explained. "We've swept the bathroom, but just in case, we should talk in the shower."

Sherlock nodded. Once she joined him it was like a license for him to let loose everything he'd felt since the moment he realised it was her.

He was thankful for his anger, it gave him something to focus on other than the fact that he and Molly were standing naked, in a shower, together.

"What the fuck is going on, Molly?"

He held her intense gaze with fierce wide eyes. Anything to distract himself from watching the water beading on her skin.

"I could say the same to you," Molly said, her tone equally fierce.

"Clearly I'm on a case. Why else do you think I'd be in this godforsaken city?"

Molly ran her hands through her hair, brushing the wet, errant strands out of her eyes. "You're using again." Her eyes were wide with disappointment.

"Again, it's for the case." He wanted to walk away in a huff, but was trapped, not only by the necessity of their location, but by John's words taunting him in his head:

 _Drama Queen._

So he stayed put, knowing that Molly wouldn't buy his excuse, knowing he was about to face her wrath. He could almost feel the sting of her hand slapping his cheek, like the burn on his skin was reverberating through time.

"You know, soon that's going to be your only criteria: What can I investigate that will give me an excuse to get high?"

"It was Mycroft's idea"

"The case. Not the drugs."

"So he sent you?"

"He told me what you've been doing. How you've gone off the radar. I chose to come."

"I don't need your help."

"Really?"

"I'm fine."

Molly grabbed his wrist, turning his arm to check for the tell-tale marks and bruises. And repeated on the right.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw his arms were still clean. "Maybe for now," she conceded.

Cocaine was one thing, but Sherlock knew that heroin was a much harder demon to defeat. Molly knew it too. She'd been there when he fought it the first time, letting him crash on her couch while going through withdrawals the night before Mycroft took him to rehab. A night full of swearing and shaking and swearing to Molly that he'd never do it again.

A promise he broke.

Molly remained standing slightly too close for Sherlock's comfort. If he wanted to, he could reach out and touch her. The compulsion motivated by a need to comfort her.

He could see that her eyes were beginning to well up. He couldn't tell if she were crying or if the droplets running down her face were from the shower spray.

Sherlock placed a finger on her chin, tilting her head so her eyes met his. "I am fine Molly. But I do need your help." He had to admit he was glad she was there. Although he had gained Henderson's trust, he had no idea how to proceed.

She nodded. "I'll talk to Mycroft. We'll put a plan in motion for next week. Please try to stay clean until then."

Sherlock nodded. He went to turn off the water but she stopped him, her hand holding on to his.

"The surveillance," she explained, "we're going to have to. I mean. Just so they don't suspect – "

Sherlock didn't know what to say. Molly continued. "I mean, just for show – we don't actually have to–"

"Yes. Pretend." Sherlock gulped. He wasn't sure how amenable his body was to pretending not to be aroused by her, especially if his reaction to seeing Molly in her underwear was anything to go by.

"Don't worry, I was engaged to Tom. I'm really good at faking it." She smiled as she turned off the tap and wrapped herself in a robe. Sherlock did likewise.

Emboldened by the fact Molly was distracted towel-drying her hair, Sherlock couldn't resist asking, "I thought you said you two were having quite a lot of sex?"

"I never said the sex was any good." Molly said, leaving Sherlock alone in the bathroom.

Sherlock stood for a moment, considering the strange turn of events. Molly was in Vegas. Molly was his handler. Molly looked amazing in expensive underwear. He and Molly had just showered naked together and now he was going to go and pretend to fuck her like she was his regular Tuesday hooker.

"It's for a case." He told himself, taking a deep breath before heading back into the hotel room.


	2. Chapter 2

This chapter is dedicated to the amazing, wonderful, talented and above all else super-encouraging MizJoely. I wouldn't have had the courage to write or post this without you!

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Sherlock decided that the best way to handle the situation was to treat it like any other aspect of being undercover. He left Sherlock Holmes behind and became Bill Grey.

Bill Grey didn't know Molly Hooper. Bill Grey had never seen her vulnerable at his bedside in the midst of his fever and panic. Bill Grey had never put his life in her hands by asking her to help him die.

To Bill, the women currently lying on his bed, wearing only a hotel robe, was his weekly appointment. He paid her to let him have her - in any way he desired. And he did desire her. The image of her naked body in the shower with him only moments ago appeared uninvited in his mind. He could see her perfectly formed breasts and the water which cascaded down valley in between. He could see it so clearly now, no matter how hard he'd tried not to notice at the time.

Bill definitely wanted this woman. He wouldn't hesitate. It was Sherlock who was delaying things. He waited by the bed, not yet ready to join her - no matter how fake said joining was going to be.

Sherlock gave himself one last concession before committing to their act. He sat on the edge of the bed and brushed the strands of hair away from her ear before whispering,

"So you definitely think we're being watched?"

He pulled back and searched her deep brown eyes for any sign of the apprehension he was feeling.

There wasn't any.

Granted, he realised she'd been prepared for this, probably since before leaving London.

Molly sat up. Running a finger down the side of his face, she leaned in to him. To any observer it would have appeared as if she were teasing him, whispering sweet nothings or dirty suggestions. Instead, she whispered, "I'm almost certain it's just audio, but we'd better be safe." She bit his ear to further sell their act.

With that she lay back down, stretching her arms above her head.

She waited.

Sherlock nodded slightly. He knew what he would have to do.

He took a deep breath, locking all thoughts of himself away along with his memories of Molly Hopper. He was Bill Grey and she was-

"What's your name this week?" He asked as if it were a game they'd played before.

"I'm whoever you want me to be," she purred.

"You're Cindy."

She nodded. "And who are you?"

"I'm Bill. I'm always Bill."

He slowly undid the sash on her robe, unwrapping her like she was a gift he wanted to savour. Bill wasn't shy about looking at her naked body. His eyes ran up and down, charting every perfect line and angle. Her breasts, the small swell of her lower stomach, the small mound of perfectly manicured pubic hair. She was gorgeous.

Bill would have taken her there and then, fucked her with no foreplay. For a moment, Sherlock wanted to as well - to bury himself in her along with his anger and frustration, punishing her for putting them in this situation to begin with.

But self-control won.

Bill calmed. He took a breath.

Sherlock wanted to give Molly one more chance to stop, to walk out, before Bill did things to Cindy's body that Sherlock had only thought of doing to Molly in dreams he would never acknowledge in the light of day.

Sherlock reached to touch her right breast, and hesitated, waiting for some sign from Molly.

"Please," Cindy begged.

Bill nodded. Still in his robe, he straddled her naked body, grinding his still-clothed hardness into her while his hands cupped her breasts. His thumbs played with the tautness of her nipples.

Cindy moaned. Loudly.

Bill was surprised at how sensitive she was, how responsive. Then Molly's words returned to him.

 _I'm really good at faking it._

Determined, Bill decided to give her something to moan about.

His lips replaced his hands on her breasts. He could hear Molly's sharp intake of breath. He'd shocked her.

Bill and Sherlock smirked, before continuing to lick and suck her small pebbled nipples.

Cindy writhed under him, pressing herself against his growing hardness.

Bill pulled back.

"I'm going to fuck you Cindy, but not yet."

He didn't know who it was who trailed kisses down her body. He wasn't sure whose idea it was to linger just above the line of her pubic hair. He couldn't tell, but suspected both men wanted desperately to go further, to spread her legs wide and bury his face in the soft sweetness. Both of them wanted to know just what she would look like as she came.

He didn't know who was moaning for him, begging for him to take her. He could tell that Molly was wet, but didn't know if pretending to be Cindy was what had caused it.

"Please," she said as she ran her fingers through his hair, guiding his head closer towards her.

He looked up at her, his chin resting on her lower belly.

"I do want to taste you. I want to bury my head in you. I want to make you scream. Would you scream?"

She nodded, "Yes."

His hands rounded her behind. She arched her back. "Please make me scream," she begged.

Bill would have. He would have taken her. He would have revelled in the sweet noises she made - no matter how fake or exaggerated.

But Sherlock couldn't.

"No."

He sat up, eyes meeting hers to show that it was Sherlock who was speaking to Molly - not Bill to Cindy.

Molly nodded.

"Get under the covers," Sherlock ordered her.

He joined her, taking off his robe, but making sure the blankets hid the fact he was still in his undershorts. One last concession to the fact that they just might be being watched.

Sherlock decided that Bill wouldn't last long. He made movements pretending he was in her. She moaned as if his cock was the most amazing one she'd ever had. Both of them ignored the fact that he was rock hard and so very close to her warm centre.

She panted and moaned, just as she promised she would.

A few pumps and Sherlock pretended to come, desperately trying to recreate a sound he hadn't heard himself make in over a decade.

The look in her eyes told him Molly suspected he wasn't acting.

Sherlock stood, grabbed his robe and headed to the bathroom. He paused at the doorway.

"You can see yourself out."

Molly nodded.

He waited in the bathroom, listening to her dress and leave. Once the hotel door clicked shut, he closed his eyes, desperately trying to delete everything that he'd just seen and heard and felt.

He didn't want to remember her moans and pleas - no matter how fake or how well practiced during her unfulfilling relationship with Tom.

He didn't want to picture her naked body or remember the feel of her perfect round breasts beneath his hands and lips.

He definitely didn't want to remember how much he wanted to taste her, to see what noises he could make her make with his head between her legs.

He certainly didn't want to acknowledge that he had all these thoughts running through his mind as he took himself in hand and finished what he and Molly (or is that Bill and Cindy?) had started.

Sherlock cleaned himself up, dressed, and walked out of the room to meet Smith.

He was relieved to be Bill Grey again - a man who'd just had a meaningless sexual encounter with a prostitute. That was so much easier than being Sherlock Holmes – a man who was beginning to develop some extremely uncomfortable feelings for his pathologist.


	3. Chapter 3

I thought I'd try this chapter from Molly's POV.

Also, I forgot to credit Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl for the idea of talking in the shower so as not to be overheard by surveillance.

Thanks to everyone for follows and comments!

* * *

"Bloody Mycroft," Molly cursed as she climbed into a cab out the front of the Bellagio. She had just finished meeting up with Sherlock - or was that Bill Grey? The line between them had certainly become blurred at this point.

Bill might be a casual cocaine user, but it was Sherlock's body, with its tendency toward unrestrained addiction, which suffered for it. Bill might be confident that cocaine was all he needed, but Molly knew that in the past cocaine was often the first step Sherlock would take on a journey that would culminate in oblivion promised by heroin.

Mycroft knew all this too. What the hell was he thinking?

Molly couldn't wait to get back to the small flat she shared with Anthea as their base of operations. Mycroft was guaranteed to cop an earful the moment the videoconference link was live. She wanted to know just how he thought he could justify leading a recovering addict right into the seedy underbelly of Las Vegas - and armed with his favourite excuse: "It's just for a case!"

And it was obvious from the moment she saw him that he had been using. His pupils were dilated and when she touched his lips and whispered in his ear she could feel that his skin was clammy. His hands also twitched uncontrollably – except for when they were on her. As he ran them down her breasts and her stomach and legs, they were still, almost achingly so.

But aside from the calm demeanour he wore as he pretended to be Bill and she pretended that her moans were all part and parcel of her role as Cindy, it was clear that Sherlock was well on his way to complete cocaine addition – again.

At least Molly was calmed in her ire by the fact he clearly hadn't been injecting. She made sure to check as soon as she had the chance, standing in the shower, running her hands up his arms. She knew he heard her exhale in relief. His head bowed slightly in acknowledgment. She was relieved.

Molly didn't want to dwell on anything else that had transpired in the hotel room. She didn't want to think about how much she had gotten into character as Cindy. She didn't want to remember her hands in Sherlock's hair as she urged him lower and lower. She certainly wanted to block out the sound he made as Bill reached his end. She didn't want to wonder if it was anything more than an enthusiastic act.

She didn't want to, but she couldn't help herself.

She had known what she was getting into as soon as Anthea briefed her back in London. She had spent the whole flight over trying to hide her feelings for Sherlock behind an impervious veneer of objectivity and professionalism. He was in trouble, and she had been tasked to assist him. That was all. Anything else would be an act.

All an act.

The words had run around her head that morning as she dressed, choosing the champagne coloured lingerie rather than the bright red or deep black – both of which screamed "I'm a hooker" a bit too loudly for her tastes.

It's an act.

She reminded herself as she looped her hair into a tight bun, and chose a shade of lipstick just slightly darker than what she would usually wear back home. Because, she wasn't home, she wasn't even Molly. Not right now.

An act.

But her acting skills weren't only being used for Sherlock. As she got out of the cab and entered her apartment building, she took a moment to compose herself, not wanting to show Anthea any signs of how being with Sherlock had affected her.

"How did it go?" Anthea asked as Molly entered the flat. Her eyes were fixed on the three surveillance monitors they had set up on their dining room table.

"Which part? The part where it looked like he wanted to kill his brother for sending me in there? Or the part where I took one look at him and could see he's using?"

Anthea ignored Molly's emotional outburst. "Neither."

Molly kicked off her impossibly-high heels and slumped down on the lounge. "It was fine. I told him we'd put an exit strategy in place as soon as possible. He seems-" Molly searched for the right words, "-comfortable with his cover."

It was Molly's code for her real concerns. She feared that being Bill Grey, with all his access to mindless pleasure, might be more alluring to Sherlock than Mycroft had expected.

Anthea didn't catch Molly's meaning. "Good." She said, and picked up her phone – probably sending a text to Mycroft.

Within minutes, the ringtone of the secure videoconference software sprung to life. Anthea answered it and Mycroft's face filled the screen.

"So, Miss Hooper, how is that brother of mine doing?" He said by way of greeting.

Molly had wanted desperately to stay calm, but something about his smug face (and her inability to punch it through a computer screen) provoked her.

"How the hell do you think? He's in Las Vegas with easy access to drugs and without any contact for weeks - what did you expect he'd do?"

If Mycroft cared that Sherlock was using, his face didn't show it. Like Anthea, he stayed resolutely on-topic.

"But Bill Grey, has he gotten as close to Henderson as we thought?"

"Yes. He's in the inner circle. His movements are all being coordinated through a body man. He waited outside our room while we…" Molly trailed off. She didn't think it was altogether necessary to paint Mycroft a picture of exactly what went on in the hotel room.

"Good. Anthea, continue running the surveillance teams and wait for the next rendezvous." Molly shuddered at the emphasis Mycroft placed on the last word.

Mycroft continued, "My sources say Henderson is close to making a move. If he does trust Sherlock, he will probably show him where the counterfeit currency is being stored, and – if we're lucky – we may even learn how they're planning on transporting them across the pond."

Molly could head the sound of Mycroft's mobile phone ringing. She saw him look at the screen and roll his eyes.

"Domestic problem," He explained. "A cabinet minister's been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong wife. Must go."

The screen went black.

The rest of the week continued somewhat uneventfully for Molly and Anthea. Days and nights were spent in shifts, checking surveillance images for Sherlock. By necessity, they couldn't have him tailed too closely, so they were left with scouts setting up cameras at Bill's local haunts. Using facial recognition software, they were alerted to Sherlock's presence when he appeared on screen.

It didn't give Molly a full picture of what he was doing, more of an impressionistic account.

One night, she saw Sherlock stumbling drunk outside a strip club.

The next night, he was climbing into a cab with a woman.

The next night she watched him into a bar with a known backroom poker game.

Other times he was simply walking along the street.

Every time he was accompanied by the ever-present Smith.

As she watched his week unfold in front of her, Molly would scours the images for any signs he'd been using – or evidence that his use had escalated.

Was his behaviour erratic? Did he seem overly aggressive? Did he have a nosebleed? But in the end she couldn't tell, the images were too brief and didn't give enough detail.

The week passed this way and soon it was time for Bill's next appointment.

She didn't have the same nerves she'd had the first time he walked into the room. On the contrary, she was relieved to see him, rewarding him with a slight smile for his achievement of not-being-dead that week.

Without having to speak, she headed for the bathroom. He joined her.

Standing under the spray naked together somehow was more awkward the second time than it was the first. She wondered if the shock of the situation had anesthetised them to the reality.

But together again, she was acutely aware of his body. His pale flesh, the sparse hair on his chest, so much lighter than the hair on his head (and elsewhere, she noted).

She wasn't sure, but she thought he seemed more aware of her body as well – not that he seemed to be looking at her – more that he seemed to be making a much more concerted effort not to look.

"Mycroft has news." She told him.

"Oh?"

"He thinks Henderson is close to making a move. He thinks you'll probably be asked to inspect the merchandise in the next week or so."

Sherlock nodded.

"So all we'll need is the address the next time we meet."

Sherlock's face was blank.

Molly continued, "So, it'll all be over soon – if that's what you want?"

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Of course it's what I want. Why would you think otherwise?"

"It just seems there's a lot to like about Bill Grey's life."

"Like what? The money and the lure of power?"

"I was thinking more the drink and the drugs and the women."

Sherlock's face showed his understanding. She was surprised he hadn't yet realised how closely they'd be watching him.

He looked away. Molly couldn't tell if it was shame or something else which clouded his features.

"Do you honestly think I want this?" he asked.

Molly wasn't sure what he was referring to – living as Bill or forgetting he's Sherlock. Or pretending she's not Molly.

She wasn't sure, but with her task completed she wasn't in the mood to dwell on it as she stood naked with him in the shower.

She turned off the tap, dried, pulled on her lingere and headed to the door. "Let's get it over with," she said without looking at him.

She lay on the bed. He lay next to her. Both of them were wrapped in robes – in distinct contrast to the last time they'd shared a bed.

"What's your name this week?" The words were stripped of the allure of the last time he'd spoken them.

"I'm whoever you want me to be," she replied flatly.

"You're Cindy." He said, as if speaking it would make it true.

She nodded. "And who are you?"

"I'm Bill. I'm always Bill," he said with determination.

There was no fake foreplay. There was no real touching of their bodies. Shielded by thick hotel robes, she couldn't feel him, nor would her body betray her by making her wet with wanting him.

Not again.

She made noises, but was sure they were less enthusiastic than the ones she cried last week. More like the way she humoured Tom at the end of their relationship than in the beginning.

Sherlock made it seem like Bill finished quickly. Molly was relieved. She waited for a moment in the silence before deciding to leave.

She moved to stand, but he grabbed her by the wrist.

She turned to him, he face posing a silent question.

"Your turn." He said before pulling her back down onto the bed.

She nodded, hoping the veneer of calm she wore was thick enough to cover the shock she felt when she saw the dark intensity in his eyes.

She wanted to ask him what he was doing, but when he took off her robe she was left in no doubt. When he ran his hands over her satin-clad body, his motivation was all too clear.

He loomed above her, eyes lingering in the places his hands had just touched.

"I owe you an apology." There was no softness in his tone, nothing to make his words seem sincere. "I was cruel to you the last time we met."

"How so?"

"You asked me for something and I didn't give it." His eyes trailed to the place she didn't want to admit she wanted so much for him to kiss.

"Yes."

He trailed kisses down her body, his lips reminding her of the same journey they took the last time they shared a bed.

He paused in the same place too, achingly close to the heat of her.

He looked up at her, trying to read her.

She nodded, "Please."

"Say my name." It was like he was daring her to say it.

"Please -" She hesitated and in that moment their eyes met, sharing the knowledge of a name forbidden to be said but one she was desperate to say – and he hoped he was just as desperate to hear.

"Please," Molly swallowed, "Please… Bill."

It didn't break the spell. In fact, he seemed all the more determined by her failure to say it, redoubling his efforts to make her scream.

Achingly slowly, he removed her satin thong, his hands running slowly down her legs, then back up again. When he reached the top, he spread them wide and settled between.

She knew what he was about to do, and knew how much she wanted it. He was so close to her, and they were so close to crossing a line together.

When Bill's phone rang.

* * *

Please don't hate me for ending the chapter there! I promise more - and hopefully soon.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks so much for all the encouraging responses to this fic. I thought it was such a crazy idea when I dreamt it up but you all seem to be loving it, so thanks!

Content warning on this chapter for violence and mild torture (Not that I think torture is ever mild. But the description isn't excessively graphic).

Thanks again for reading!

* * *

Sherlock wanted to ignore the incessant shrill of the cell phone. He wanted to pretend he hadn't heard it. He wanted so much to take advantage of the woman in front of him, so raw from wanting and so close to him and ready for him to take her.

For that brief moment, he wanted so much for her to be Molly, for him to be Sherlock, and for the two of them to be back at Baker Street, or in her flat, or in her office at Bart's, or in the back of a black cab – anywhere but in the middle of Las-Fucking-Vegas.

But she wasn't Molly. She was playing her part – very convincingly.

And he was Bill, and Bill's phone was ringing.

And even if part of him was still Sherlock, what the fuck was he thinking? Since when did his body – mere transport – have the right to dictate terms to him? His mind was in control. And his mind was what Mycroft had send him to Las Vegas to use, regardless of how much his body was protesting.

So he left her on the bed, crossed the room to where his phone lay abandoned on the floor and picked it up. He didn't look back, didn't want to see if the look on her face was annoyance, frustration or relief. He didn't even know which one of those he was feeling himself.

He looked at the phone. It was Henderson. He answered it.

There was no greeting, Henderson wasn't one for pleasantries. Sherlock had noticed how he would begin a sentence mid-thought and expect those listening to catch up.

"Smith said you were occupied. I said it couldn't wait."

"It's fine. I'm done with my appointment." He said it as much to convince himself as to inform Molly of her need to make a quick exit – for the sake of the operation as well as for his rapidly-waning self-control.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her move to gather her things. He didn't dare look directly at her.

"Great. Go with Smith. He knows what to do."

The line went dead.

Molly was already dressed, wearing street clothes as well as an inscrutable look on her face. Back home, he could always read Molly better than anyone. He could tell from the line of her eyebrows if she'd had a bad date. He could tell from her fingernail length if she'd had a recent call from her mother (nail-biting was her reaction to acute stress, and there was nothing that stressed Molly out more than her mother asking her when she was going to "get herself a nice man"). He could tell if he'd done something small to annoy her because there was always a smirk she failed to hide behind her angry glower. He could tell if he was truly in trouble because she would hold her mouth in a tight line without any sign of the smile she almost always wore – even in her saddest of moments.

But now, the Molly standing before him was entirely unreadable. She was doing a perfect job of hiding any reaction to what had almost just taken place between them. And he couldn't stand it.

In that moment he wanted to take her, to push her against the wall and bury himself and all his frustration into her. He wanted to be savage, to make her scream, to see how much of Cindy truly was an act.

But he didn't. He merely gestured to his phone.

"Work," he explained in the guise of Bill.

"Sure," replied Cindy, nodding.

"See you next week," Bill said as she walked out the door.

Sherlock dressed quickly and met Smith in the hallway. He had learned there was no point in asking Smith where they were going – he never answered. Instead, they exchanged a nod and Sherlock followed him down to the basement parking.

They drove for what felt like twenty miles or so, leaving the lights and the crowds behind and heading into the desert. By the time they pulled of the highway, the sun was beginning to set, leaving an unearthly orange glow as it made its way below the horizon.

The car stopped at an old, disused petrol station. From the looks of it, Sherlock guessed it hadn't been in operation for three – maybe four years.

Smith got out first, walked around to the staff entrance at the back and knocked three times.

"Wait out here," Henderson's bodyguard said to Smith. "He only wants you," the bald, imposing and (Sherlock assumed) steroid-injecting guard said to him.

Sherlock walked into a darkened room, lined with lockers. In the middle was a small, cheap table and two chairs. Henderson sat in one, and gestured to Sherlock to sit in the other, facing him. The guard stood next to the table, arms behind his back.

"This is Marley." Henderson gestured to the guard, whose figure had become even more imposing as he loomed over them as they sat.

Sherlock nodded. He wasn't game to shake his hand, nor did he think that Marley was accustomed to such social graces.

"I like you, Bill," Henderson began, "You've become valuable to our operation."

Despite Henderson's friendly tone and the compliment, Sherlock he was certain he hadn't been driven out into the middle of the Nevada dessert just for the sake of ego-stroking.

"Glad I can help," Sherlock said.

"I know you're keen to leave Las Vegas."

"It has its charms." For Bill, those charms were women, booze and coke. For Sherlock, the image of Molly in the throes of pleasure appeared, unwelcomed, in his mind. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to erase it.

"Well, we're ready to move soon – maybe in the next week or so. Our export operations are all set up."

"When can I see them?"

"Soon. How long do you need to establish receipt in the UK?"

"As long as possible."

"I'll give you one week – one week from when we show you how we're exporting them for you to set up an appropriate fencing operation."

"One week isn't very long."

Henderson shrugged, "It's the best I can do."

"Excellent," Sherlock moved to stand, "I'll just continue enjoying your gracious hospitality until you need me."

Henderson and Marley exchanged a quick glance. Without warning, Marley slapped one of his impossibly-large hands on Sherlock's shoulder and pushed him back into his chair.

"There's just one more thing," Henderson explained.

"And that is?" Sherlock tried to maintain a calm exterior, but there was something about Henderson's tone, and the glare in Marley's eyes that made him think otherwise.

"A test. Of loyalty." Henderson nodded at Marley.

"What kind of test?" Sherlock asked, knowing he wouldn't like the answer, whatever it was.

Without warning, Marley grabbed Sherlock's left wrist with one hand, and his pinkie finger with another. Marley wrenched the digit upwards, disjointing it from the socket with a painful snap, before letting go and returning to his place beside the table.

"What the fuck?" Sherlock asked, cradling his injured hand with the other.

"We need to know you are who you say you are," Henderson said, showing no reaction to the pain writ large on Sherlock's face. "Are you Bill Grey?"

"Yes." Sherlock snorted between gasps of pain.

Henderson nodded at Marley again.

"I am!" Sherlock protested to no avail. Marley's meaty fists were on Sherlock's hands, this time reaching for his left ring finger.

Sherlock spat in the bald man's face, with did nothing to deter him.

"Are you Bill Grey?" Henderson asked in the same cool tone as before.

Marley began hyperextending Sherlock's finger. "Yes!" he gasped in pain. Marley didn't stop. This time, Sherlock heard the tell-tale crack of breaking bone. Without a break, Marley moved on to the next finger. Brutal hands lingered on Sherlock's fine violinist's fingers, waiting for a sign from Henderson.

Henderson continued. "I'll ask you again. Are you Bill Grey?"

Sherlock took a deep breath to steel his nerves and mask the pain. "You know I am."

Marley and Henderson exchanged a glance that Sherlock's mind, so addled by injury, couldn't read. Marley's grip tightened and Sherlock steeled himself for another break. Then Marley let go.

"Good," Henderson smiled warmly as he stood to leave.

He walked to the door. "We'll be in contact soon," he nodded and left, with Marley following a step behind.

Sherlock's head collapsed on the table with enough force to distract him from the pain in his left hand. He could hear that Smith entered the room.

"I'll call for a doctor to meet us at your apartment," Smith said.

Sherlock didn't want to think about doctors. He didn't want to hear John telling him what an idiot he was for taking this assignment from Mycroft. He didn't want to see Molly's concerned face or her wide caring eyes. He didn't want her to take his injured hand in her small delicate ones. He didn't want to feel her tenderness as she reset the fingers and wrapped the splint. He didn't want her to place her soft lips on his to distract him from his pain.

He kept telling himself all the things he didn't want, knowing that they were of course the precise things he needed at that very moment.

Sherlock only just made it to the car before blacking out.


	5. Chapter 5

I'd written 98% of this chapter and then got blocked before writing the last little bit. Thanks for your patience.

And Thanks again for all of your kind comments and encouragement with this fic. I really did think it was such a crazy idea that no one would be interested in and now it's by far my most followed fic, so thanks!

A/N: Content warnings for Drugs, Alcohol, Violence and a deeply contemplative Sherlock

* * *

Time passed, but not for Sherlock. He didn't remember how Smith got him from the car to his flat. He couldn't tell how long he'd be passed out on his bed. Later, there would be the dim recollection of a muffled conversation between Smith and someone whom Sherlock guessed was a doctor. Not long afterwards, he felt the jab of several needles in his injured hand – an antibiotic for the cuts and contusions and local anesthetic to allow the doctor to re-set the broken bones.

After that, he remained in a sleeping-pill induced stupor.

Three days passed that way.

On the fourth day, Smith opened the blinds. Sherlock's eyes were not ready to adjust to the bright glow of the Nevada sunshine. He squinted before rolling over to hide himself from the sun's unwelcome beams.

"You're needed today," was Smith's attempt at apology for the rude awakening.

Language was elusive to Sherlock, having not had to rely on it since leaving the abandoned gas station and passing out.

"Henderson wants you to see his operation." Smith explained. He threw Sherlock a towel. It landed on his stomach with a thump. "You've got an hour."

Sherlock stood, his legs unsteady from a combination of lack of use, an empty stomach, and whatever medications Smith had been feeding him while he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness.

He stopped for a moment, resting his head against the closed bathroom door. His hand was set with two splints, and whatever they had given him certainly had him feeling little pain, but it also had him feeling slow and dull. He wondered if this is what regular people felt like. Certainly his mind was calm, not crowded with thoughts and theories, people and perceptions.

At this slow pace, he could easily control where he wandered within his mind palace. He walked down a hallway. On the right was a door marked _Henderson._ Sherlock knew that everything he would need to finish the assignment was behind the door. If he opened it, he knew he would be met with a list of Henderson's closes allies and the information they'd inadvertently shared with Sherlock over who knows how many hundreds of hands of Poker. He's also have everything he knew about Henderson - his likes, his dislikes, and more recently, his favourite method of interrogation.

Sherlock knew that it would be wise to take a moment and review all the information he had on Henderson, on this assignment, on Vegas itself. But he also knew that there would be someone else behind that door, someone whose involvement in the case was more of a distraction than Sherlock would want to admit.

He didn't want to see her – even if it was only his memory of her. He didn't want to remember what she looked like in her lace thong – or what she looked like out of it. He didn't want to replay the sound of her moans as he was on top of her, pretending to be doing the one thing that back in London he never would have imagined he would do with her, but now in Nevada was the one thing couldn't stop imagining himself doing. He didn't want to think of the last time he saw her, or consider what possessed him as he found himself moments away from taking her, or what would have happened if his phone hadn't rung.

Was he relieved? Or disappointed?

He was so distracted by trying not to think of Molly that he didn't notice that she was standing there, in his mind palace, the product of thousands of memories etched into the recessed of his mind.

Molly.

Not Mycroft's agent.

Not Sherlock's Handler.

Not Bill's hooker.

Molly.

She was standing, wide eyed with disappointment like the day she slapped in him Bart's lab.

Molly, with long straight hair tied in a ponytail and trailing down her back. Molly with a lab coat over a brightly-coloured floral print shirt and khaki slacks. Molly, whose residence in his mind palace was what had kept him alive when Mary's bullet was set to snuff out his life.

"What do you think you're doing?" She asked him.

Back in the bathroom in Vegas, Sherlock looked to find a mirror with two lines of coke he didn't remember pouring. In his hand was a rolled up bill.

"Sherlock?" mind palace Molly persisted.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Just for today," he said, failing to convince any part of himself that it was true.

The drugs hit his bloodstream with a rush that felt oddly familiar to the sting of Molly's hand slapping his face.

Within moments, the chaos of his mind returned, and his memories of Molly disappeared.

Sherlock tried not to panic when he realised that Smith was taking the same route as they took to the abandoned gas station the other night. He only realised that he had been holding his breath when he involuntarily exhaled the moment they drove past the dusty driveway.

The continued down the highway for another ten minutes before pulling off the highway at a turnoff near Boulder City. It was there the car wound through industrial area until stopping at a nondescript warehouse. Sherlock was glad he had remembered to activate the GPS tracker in his fountain pen before they left his flat. He remembered mocking Mycroft when he gave it to him – Sherlock wasn't James Bond and Mycroft definitely wasn't Q – or M. Now, Sherlock had to admit he was glad he had it. He wasn't certain he would be able to lead Mycroft's people back without it.

The warehouse was full of shipping containers. About a dozen men – with a poor grasp of English and without valid Nevada drivers' licences, Sherlock guessed – were loading pallets of boxes into the containers. Some drive forklifts, some unloaded boxes into the containers, others carried them by hand. Sherlock studied the boxes as much as he could without seeming too obvious – from what he could see they were small water pumps and assorted pipes.

Smith led Sherlock through the warehouse to the controller's office at the back. Henderson was waiting for him. He was on the phone, but a wide smile crossed his face when he saw Sherlock – saw Bill.

Sherlock caught the tail-end of the conversation as he entered the office. "…next Friday. Can you see to it? Good."

Henderson hung up and turned his attention to Sherlock.

"Bill!" he greeted like an old friend. "Now, before we get down to business, I really do owe you an apology."

Sherlock waved his splinted fingers. "They're healing fine."

"No! Not that!" He laughed. Sherlock found himself uneasy in the presence of someone who could find his broken fingers so amusing. "I didn't realise what I'd interrupted when I called you last week." His eyebrows raised suggestively.

Sherlock used every ounce of self-control not to react. He was talking about Molly – Cindy – whoever she was at the time. And judging from his face, the room had definitely been under surveillance, just as they had suspected.

"Forget about it," Sherlock said, trying to remain dispassionate.

"Good." Henderson stood, walking back to the warehouse floor. Sherlock followed. "Did you know that the US exports almost ten billion dollars' worth of pumps and engines to the UK every year?"

"No."

"Neither did I, until I needed a way to smuggle merchandise." Henderson gestured to the containers, "Most of these are exactly as they appear – loaded with pumps and pipes pump-engines. But others…" Henderson stopped at an empty container, bent down, and lifted up the ply-board flooring to reveal sealed black plastic bags. He grabbed a knife and cut one open. It was full of 50 pound notes.

"So you need me to arrange receipt at my end?"

"Yes. Can you do it?"

"I have a contact at a port in Dover. Owes me. Consider it done."

Henderson slapped Sherlock on the back, "Great!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a disposable cell phone. "Call me when it's ready."

Henderson nodded to Smith who led Sherlock back to the car.

Sherlock sat in the back of the car, replaying the scene over and over again. There was something about Henderson that didn't add up. Something in his smile and his laughter, something in the way he slapped him on the back. Something more than just the fact that he knew now, without a doubt, that Henderson had Bill under constant surveillance.

That Henderson knew about Cindy. And even if he only thought he was a call girl – she was his regular call girl – and in fact, the only woman Bill had shown any real desire for beyond the occasional lap dance at Henderson's parties. Henderson had made sure Bill knew that he knew.

And now Sherlock knew that Molly was in more danger than Mycroft would have let on when he convinced her to come here after him.

They had been driving for twenty minutes before Smith said anything.

"Where should I take you?" he asked.

Sherlock had no idea how to answer. He knew he couldn't see Molly. Any deviation from his routine at this point would certainly tip-off Henderson and his men. He would have to wait another few days until their scheduled appointment.

Only a few more days until he could fill her in on the details of Henderson's plan. Only a few more days until Mycroft could call in the dogs and get this operation completed. Only a few more days until they could head back to London and put everything about this godforsaken desert-city behind them. Only a few more days before Bill and Cindy were no more.

No more weekly meetings. No more alluring undergarments. No more temptations.

Bill's life was definitely full of temptations. Not just Cindy. Bill had easy access to all of the narcotics Sherlock had cut himself off from in London. Or, more accurately, Mycroft had him cut off from after circulating a picture of Sherlock to all of the local dealers with a message that if they were caught providing him with anything illegal, the full weight of Her Majesty's justice system would come swiftly down upon their drug-addled heads.

In London, all of Sherlock's demons had been kept at bay. In Vegas, they had been given full reign. Maybe Molly was right, there was a lot to like about Bill Grey's life. Bill didn't have a big brother whose disapproving face to the fun out of every infraction. Bill didn't have a best friend he'd kill for, and a best friend's wife he was willing to die for (even if she was the one who almost killed him). Bill didn't work with a detective inspector who had seen him at his worst – a drug-addled twenty-something wash-up – and was still willing to give him a chance to prove himself.

And Bill didn't have Molly – with eyes wide with worry and a voice that sounded a lot like his long-lost conscience.

But when Sherlock came back, what would his friends make of Bill?

Would Mycroft truly believe that it was necessary for Bill to use as much cocaine as he did?

Would Lestrade believe that Bill's criminal activities weren't more exciting than solving crimes in London?

Would John and Mary understand the live Bill had to lead in order to get close to Henderson?

And what of Molly? He couldn't even begin to think about seeing Molly again, and how she would react to him when he started being Sherlock Holmes again. Would she forget about Bill? Or at least pretend to forget?

And would Sherlock be able to forget Cindy? Could he leave her behind in Vegas? Could he abandon her and his memories of her beautiful legs and her desperate pleas and the sounds she made when she wanted him? Could he truly forget the way she was so ready for him and he so willing to take her?

The thoughts raced around in his head as Smith pulled up to Bill's apartment.

"No." Sherlock said to Smith, "Take me to Dino's."

The sign outside Dino's bar boasted that it had been established in 1962, and from the looks of things, the décor, the lighting and the flooring were all original. But Dino's was home to cheap booze and a high-stakes poker game, and Sherlock felt like both – and luckily, so did Bill.

Sherlock had played thousands of hands of poker while living as Bill, but tonight, as the end of Bill's time in Vegas drew near, and with thoughts of London just too real and too hard for Sherlock, he decided on an experiment: how much alcohol could he consume and keep winning?

* * *

Days later, on his way to his appointment with Cindy, Sherlock had the answer to his questions, and a face full of bruises top show for his troubles. It turned out that when Bill wasn't being held back and was able drink as much as he wanted and win as many hands as he could, people did not like the outcome.

After one particular night of heavy drinking and more hands of poker than he could count, Sherlock stumbled through a back alley pockets brimming with crushed $50 bills. His usually hones hearing was dulled, his reflexes slowed. He had no idea that there were three unhappy gamblers in the alley with him until the first cracked him over the head with a pipe, the second kicked him in the guts while he was down and the third broke his nose with the heel of his imported crocodile-skin cowboy boots.

The last thing he remembered that night was the sound of Smith firing his gun in the air, scaring his attackers away.

That was three days ago, and as he approached his suite to meet Molly, he knew there was no hiding the cuts and bruises on his face, or the swelling around his nose.

He'd seen Molly angry before, faced the brunt of her fury, and didn't want a repeat performance. If they were in any other point in his investigation, he could have blown her off, stayed in bed and played dumb the next time he saw her. But they were so close to the end now, and he had information he needed her to hear.

They'd have to be careful, though. It was clear from Henderson's comments about what he'd "interrupted" last week that the room was definitely bugged.

Steeling himself, he opened the door.

He knew he looked bad, but had no idea just how bad until he saw the horror in Molly's eyes as he entered the room. She rushed over to him, the doctor's instinct taking over as she assessed the damage to his face.

"Sherlock, what the hell has happened to you?" She said.

Sherlock, she said.

If her face showed horror at his injuries, she was downright terrified now, knowing as he did that in that instant their cover had been blown.

"Fuck!" She said, and pulled him with her into the safety of the bathroom.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This chapter is for my captain MizJoely for taking the time to look over it and making sure that my smexy scenes are up to par.**

 **So, yes, there is some sexy times ahead.**

 **Thanks again for all who have been following this fic!**

* * *

"Fuck." She said again as he slammed the bathroom door shut behind them. She was glad he wasn't looking at her and couldn't see the look of horror on her face. Not only for the fact their cover had been blown, but for him. What on earth had happened to him?

"We don't have much time," he said, already stripping out of his shirt. Molly was relieved to see that the bruises covering his face didn't have matching counterparts on his torso.

Molly quickly stripped out of her slip and joined him under the heat of the shower spray.

Once alone together, where she was sure they could safely be themselves, Molly couldn't hold back any longer. "What the hell happened to you?" she demanded.

"Nothing."

Molly reached out and brushed his bruised cheek. "This isn't nothing."

Sherlock snatched her hand away. "It'll heal, which is a damn sight more than will happen if Henderson finds you."

Molly nodded.

They stared at each other for a moment. Molly, so full of anger at him – or perhaps at Bill. No doubt it was Bill who got himself in such a situation. Or Sherlock, enjoying one last outing in Bill's shoes.

Sherlock was glowering, too. "So, I'm waiting," he said, running his hands through his locks to brush the curls out of his eyes.

"For what?"

"For an apology," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Our case is almost certainly blown because you – or was it Bill – couldn't behave for just one week, and you expect me to apologise?" Molly turned away, the shower spray running down her back.

"I blew the case? Molly, you're the one who forgot who you are."

"And you're the one who's been ducking our surveillance all week. Perhaps if I'd been prepared, I wouldn't have reacted the way I did."

Sherlock seemed to agree with her. Enough, at least, to drop it.

"We can be extracted soon. Just give Mycroft these GPS coordinates." Sherlock rattled off a series of numbers, which he had Molly repeat back three times.

Molly shut off the shower, towelled, dried, and headed for the door.

Sherlock's hand stopped her from turning the handle.

"Things could get dangerous from here," he whispered into her ear. "Henderson definitely has the room bugged. Report back to Mycroft and get out."

Molly turned, eyes wide with worry. "But what about you?"

Sherlock smirked, "I've been through worse."

Molly couldn't help smiling at the morbid memory of his faked death and eventual resurrection. Definitely worse.

She was ready to leave, but Sherlock held the door closed. The bruises around his eyes couldn't mask the fear in his eyes. And something else, something she'd only seen Bill exhibit.

"Sherlock?" A question, and barely a whisper.

Before she knew it, his mouth was on hers. It took her a moment to respond to his desperate claiming of her with teeth and tongue and lips as harsh as the words they sometimes spilt. She could get lost in him, lost in his attempts to take her, but the reality of their situation couldn't be ignored. Nor could she ignore the pretence which had almost brought them to this position twice already: Cindy and Bill.

Molly pulled away, breathless.

Sherlock's eyes were dilated, his breath coming fast and shallow.

"Who are you?" Molly asked.

"I don't know anymore," he said with complete, raw, exposed honesty.

"Who do you want me to be?"

He searched her eyes before answering.

"Yourself."

That was all she needed to hear. She kissed him, yielding to the demands of his lips on her lips, his hands on her breasts and the growing pressure between her legs where their nakedness was certainly becoming impossible to ignore.

She opened the door and they stumbled into the bedroom, collapsing on the bed with his weight awkwardly trapping her underneath him.

There was no time for foreplay or to stop and enjoy the moment. He filled her so quickly and completely that she let out an involuntary groan. He stilled, making sure he hadn't hurt her, but all she could do was nod to let him know she was fine.

He didn't hold back, and neither did she. Their coupling was fast and frantic. They fucked like it was their last day on earth – because there was a distinct possibility that that was true.

He came quickly, like a man who hadn't had sex in months – but it was Sherlock, perhaps it had even been years, Molly wasn't sure. But Bill? Who knew what he'd neem up to during his time in Vegas.

As his breathing returned to normal, Molly kissed him softly before rolling out of bed.

* * *

Sherlock's mind was blank. Ever since he entered the room and Molly said his name, his real name, he had been running on instinct.

It was instinct, and his baser nature, which had taken his pleasure in her so quickly.

But as she dressed, and his thoughts returned, there was something else.

Fear.

He was afraid for her. For himself. For everything. He couldn't remember the last time he was so afraid.

Molly lent forward so he could hear her, "I'll report to Mycroft straight away. We'll extract you when we can."

Sherlock caught her hand. "You have no idea how much I want to go with you," he said.

"You can't." She replied, and left.

Sherlock didn't want to think any further about the events of the afternoon. There was work to do, some loose ends to tidy up. Chiefly, how could he lose Smith, his ever-present shadow, and rendezvous at the safe house Mycroft had set up?

Sherlock played through several scenarios as he showered, using the distraction of his mind to block out thoughts of the taste of Molly's lips, the touch of her breasts and feel of her wetness and the look on his face when he entered her.

His growing erection showed his failure to block it all out.

Sherlock dressed and headed down to Smith's town car. Sherlock played through all sorts of plans while Smith drove him back to his flat. He could distract him with a fire alarm. He could lure him into the laundry with an overflowing sink. He could just knock the man out cold, but he didn't like his chances when Smith outweighed him by at least 30 pounds.

Sherlock was lost in his thoughts as he entered his flat. Perhaps that was why he didn't notice the small muffled yelp until it was too late.

Molly. Tied up. Gagged. In his lounge room.

Henderson standing by her. Gun barrel pointed at her head.

"Welcome home, Sherlock Holmes," Henderson grinned as he flicked the safety off on his pistol.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This chapter is tension and action - which is not my forte - but needs to be done so we can get to some Sherlolly fallout in the final few chapters of this fic, which I'm looking forward to writing so much more! It was** **so hard to write. I'm still not 100% with it, but I want to get this story completed because so many people seem to have been enjoying it so far.**

* * *

Molly's head ached from where Henderson's man had knocked her down. No doubt he taken advantage of Molly's distraction as she texted the emergency extraction code to Anthea.

And now she was sitting in a hard-backed plastic vintage chair in Bill Grey's apartment.

Her bound wrists chafed from her attempts at freeing them. The gag in her mouth made it hard to breathe. And there was a gun barrel pointed at her left temple.

Despite the circumstances, she couldn't help herself having an imaginary conversation with her best friend Meena.

"So how was Vegas?" Meena would ask.

"Oh, you know, saw some sights, almost died, the usual."

Perhaps not the most profound thoughts to have when facing one's death. But it was better than thinking about the reality of the situation. And it certainly stopped her from focusing on the look of sheer venom in Sherlock's eyes as he faced off with Henderson.

Henderson nodded at Sherlock's bodyman who held Sherlock's arms behind his back and removed the pistol Sherlock had tucked into the back of his trowsers.

Once freed, Sherlock turned his attentions again to Henderson.

"Let her go. You know she's got nothing to do with this. Just a whore," he spat out the word.

Henderson laughed without mirth. "Now now. You and I both know that's not the case."

He gestured to Sherlock to take a seat, and he complied.

"You are a funny one, Sherlock Holmes," he said, running a hand through Molly's hair, making her shudder. "From everything I'd heard about you, I wouldn't think this little one would be your type."

Henderson licked his thumb and wiped a line of stray mascara that had run down Molly's cheek. She wanted to gag. She could see Sherlock swallow, trying his best not to betray any emotion.

"Over here, well, we think most of you Brits are a bit limp anyway, but there are rumours of your – what is he, companion? Wilson?" He looked up, as if the ceiling held the answer, "No, Watson."

Sherlock remained silent, refusing to participate in any game Henderson was playing.

Molly wished for the powers of telepathy, or that the two of them could communicate in Morse Code by blinking – she heard that John had done that once. Any way to get him to stall for time.

"But then I started getting reports of some particularly entertaining footage featuring you and this little piece." Henderson's eyes trailed lasciviously down her body. Molly had never felt so violated – and he hadn't even laid a finger on her.

"Smith." He nodded to the bodyman, the home theatre screen illuminated, and filled with footage of one of their afternoons together. Molly knew they weren't actually doing what it looked very much like they were doing, but it certainly was such an impressive facsimile that she felt her cheeks redden with shame.

She closed her eyes, not wanting to watch any more. After a few moments, she heard the tell-tale sound of Bill's – ending – and she opened her eyes in time to see herself (well, Cindy), dress and leave the hotel room.

After a moment, Bill yelled out, "There. Stop it there."

On the screen, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

"See?"

"See what?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, Mr Holmes, that is not the look of a man who has had a meaningless lay," Henderson smirked. "That is a man who has had his life turned upside down."

"Or it's just a man who needs more coke," Sherlock retorted.

Henderson shook his head. "You could have any of the pros who worked my parties. You didn't. You only saw her. She's special."

Sherlock scoffed, "She's clean. Who knows where your young ladies have been."

Henderson circled around her. "I don't know. If she can make a man like you turn straight, maybe she'd give my pros a run for their money." He traced a finger down her neck and along her collarbone. "What do you think, sweetie?" He asked her.

Molly's eyes remained steel, penetrating into Henderson's. She was unrelenting, even as his hand moved close to her right breast. She glanced in Sherlock's direction, willing him not to react.

"Stop!" Sherlock stood. "Do whatever you want to me, just leave her."

Henderson almost doubled over, laughing in hysterics. After a moment he calmed. "Did you really think this was an either/or situation? If anything, it's a first/then. You're both going to die. I just wanted you to watch while I took your little piece for a test drive." Henderson ripped the side seam of Molly's skirt. His hands began running up her thighs. And then-

-time slowed down.

Events didn't happen in logical sequence, only as impressions.

Sherlock charging at Henderson.

Henderson pulling up Molly's dress.

Smith holding Sherlock back.

Henderson turning, gun aimed at Sherlock.

Molly twisting, turning in her chair, tipping it to the ground, freeing her arms – just enough.

Smith wrestling Sherlock into his chair, punching him in the face.

Molly eyeing her panic button on the floor – fallen from her bra.

Smith turning to Henderson.

Henderson's wicked smile as he stood over Molly.

Molly twisting, turning, trying to get to the button.

Sherlock yelling.

Henderson's eyes glazing over. Body falling to the floor.

Molly squeezing the button between two index fingers.

Smith. Standing. Plastic chair in hand. Nodding at Sherlock.

And then the cavalry arrived, led by Anthea.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Well this chapter got a little more angsty than I expected. But the good news is I think there's only one more to go after this - and I guarantee happy feels. Thanks again for all of you lovely readers and reviewers for getting on board this crazy little fic!**

* * *

It took Mycroft's agents seconds to spread out and scour the flat, like a swarm of assault-rifle wielding flies.

Once they had cleared, Sherlock saw Anthea and Smith huddled together in his kitchen. They were in deep discussion, and as much as Sherlock wanted to know what the fuck was happening with his supposed body-man, and what led him to turn on Henderson, the only thing that truly mattered in that moment was Molly.

Her hands had been freed by one of the agents, and there was an ambulance was on its way, but there was something about Molly's vacant eyes which troubled Sherlock.

"Are you ok?" he asked, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Molly flinched. Sherlock thought it was because she wasn't ready for him to touch her again, no matter how innocent his intentions. "Sorry – I um…" he stumbled.

Molly shook her head, "No, it's my shoulder. I think I dislocated it getting to my panic button."

Sherlock nodded. "The ambulance should be here any moment."

Not soon enough. Molly's face was pale and getting more so by the second.

"I'm sorry about-" Molly began, but her eyes rolled back into her head. Sherlock caught her before she fell off the chair. Laying her slowly down to the ground.

"I need a medic," he shouted.

Anthea appeared, "It's two minutes out." She gave Molly a quick once-over as she lay on the ground supported by Sherlock. "What's wrong with her?"

"She has a dislocated shoulder, but nothing that would cause a loss of consciousness, unless it's shock." Then Sherlock noticed the unfortunately familiar warmth of blood on his fingertips. Somewhere in the chaos, she had received a pretty severe blow to the back of the head.

Not for the first time of late, Sherlock had the overwhelming urge to punch his older brother squarely in the nose for being such an arse and dragging Molly half-way around the world and into this shit storm.

The paramedics arrived before Sherlock could say anything. As they lifted her onto the gurney he shouted after them information about her blood type, her injuries, her allergy to dairy, anything he could think of that might be relevant. He was about to follow them out the door and into the waiting ambulance when Anthea blocked his path.

"Out of my way," he said in almost a feral growl.

"You're not going anywhere," Anthea said, completely unfazed.

Sherlock scoffed. "And who's going to stop me?" he asked.

The bulky form of Smith – probably not Smith, Sherlock supposed - joined Anthea's doorway blockade.

"Orders from the boss," Smith informed him.

The boss. It was almost enough to make Sherlock laugh at the absurdity of it.

"And the boss would be Mycroft, I assume?"

Neither Anthea nor Smith needed to say anything. But Sherlock couldn't wait to find out from "the boss" himself about why on earth both he and Molly were so essential if he'd had a man in Henderson's operation the whole time.

But that could wait. Right that moment, Molly was unconscious and being loaded into an ambulance downstairs.

Sherlock glanced from Anthea to Smith and back again.

"You tell your boss," he almost spat the word, "he knows where he can find me."

With a nod from Anthea, Smith moved aside and allowed Sherlock to pass.

* * *

Her head was full of impossible images and obscure thoughts.

Someone had spilt melted sugar-lollies on her face. Try as she might, she couldn't open her eyes, the syrup had them shut up tight.

Why else wouldn't she be able to open her eyes?

Her alarm was ringing at odd intervals. But not her alarm. Bells, but not in the tone of the iPhone's default tune – she'd never bothered to change it. But when the bells rang, she didn't want to wake.

It wasn't a work day. In fact, she couldn't remember when she last went to work. Or what her work was.

She was asleep, but she wasn't at home. It wasn't her bed. Her bed was warm and her pillow was feather-down and soft. This pillow was hard – almost as if she were lying flat on the bed without a pillow at all. And the room was cold, with the crisp false smell of air conditioning.

But she didn't need air conditioning at home. Not in her flat. Not in London.

London – but that's not where she was, or where she had been.

There was an odour in the air that reminded her that not too long ago she used to work in a hospital. But not lately.

Lately?

She remembered fancy lingerie and dresses that were easy to remove and replace when necessary. And a tall man with beautiful, haunted eyes and hands eager to please her. And if she concentrated on his face and looked past the troubling bruises and grazes she could almost remember his name.

Sherlock.

"I need to see her," came his urgent voice. Almost as if thinking his name conjured him into existence.

Soft hands, those same gifted, talented, desperate hands that had once trailed down her body were now resting gently on her own.

"Molly," he said.

She guessed that was her name. She couldn't help smiling.

"Molly," he repeated, "can you hear me?"

She tried to speak, but it felt like she was underwater, but could somehow still breathe. Was she in a scuba suit?

She tried to nod, but her head was held in place.

But she could feel his hand on hers, and could move her fingers until they intertwined with his.

He sighed. Relieved.

She didn't feel him take his hand away. Didn't hear him leave. Didn't see him when she woke up, days later, in a hospital in London.

* * *

What Molly didn't hear while she was in and out of consciousness was the fight Sherlock put up when Mycroft informed him that he was not going to be transferred to London with her.

Mycroft stood outside Molly's room. He had taken the private jet to Vegas to ensure everything was in order. Or so he said. Sherlock wasn't so sure his true motivation was to show Sherlock the disappointment on his face.

Either way, his presence was not welcome, beyond its promise of a trip home for him and Molly. And it was this, and only this, that caused Sherlock to leave his vigil at her side.

"So when do we leave?" was Sherlock's alternative to greeting his brother.

"You are not going anywhere before your forty days and forty nights are up, brother mine," Mycroft bluntly informed him.

Sherlock found himself clenching his fists at his side, before grabbing his brother by the lapels and shoving him into the wall "I don't need rehab, brother, I just need London," he said through gritted teeth.

Mycroft tilted his head sceptically. Eyebrow raised as if their current predicament was proof enough.

Sherlock let go of his brother, who wasted no time in straightening his suit back to its normal immaculacy.

"The place is booked," he said, as if a mere booking was enough to make it a fait accompli.

Sherlock scoffed.

"And besides," Mycroft continued, "I made a promise to our parents, little brother."

If his brother's nonchalance wasn't enough to make Sherlock's blood boil, bringing up their parents was.

Sherlock stalked menacingly towards him. "Did you explain that you're the one who cooked up this operation?"

"I think that slipped my mind," Mycroft said, with all the false sincerity of the highly practiced diplomat that he was.

Sherlock was about to retort, to bring up the issue of Smith and why the hell he and Molly were even needed in Nevada in the first place, but an alarm on Molly's oxygen monitor drew both Holmes brothers to attention.

Two nurses hurried into Molly's room, made an adjustment to her IV and breathing tube and she soon stabilised.

After a minute or two in which both Sherlock and Mycroft stood, transfixed by the small, yet formidable woman on the hospital bed, Mycroft spoke.

"How is Miss Hooper doing?"

Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on Molly's form while he rattled off the details with more emotion than he was comfortable showing in front of his brother. "The Doctor isn't sure why she's staying out so long. The CT showed no bruising on her brain and no clots from where Henderson struck her. She just won't wake up."

"Anthea told me she'd all but stopped sleeping in the last week or so. She was worried about you."

Sherlock turned to Mycroft, searching his brother's face for a sign that what he was saying wasn't true. But he knew it had to be. Of course Molly would sacrifice her own health for his.

Stupid. But he wasn't sure who was the greater fool – her for worrying, or him for giving her reason to.

Sherlock couldn't understand why it would be so important for Mycroft to share that detail – unless-

"You can't blame Molly for the operation going south," he said, and he meant it.

"I don't." Mycroft said. He meant it, too.

Sherlock was shocked. "You don't?"

"No, Sherlock. I blame you."

Mycroft turned, walking away.

Sherlock knew there was no point in fighting his brother when it came to it. Molly would be transferred to London. He would stay in rehab in the US.

But that didn't mean he didn't scream at the poor lackeys Mycroft had entrusted to move Molly from the hospital to Mycroft's private jet.

And it didn't mean he wouldn't make it easy for Mycroft's agents to find him to take him to the centre.

And it didn't surprise Mycroft to learn that when Sherlock was found, he was moments away from playing the winning hand and claiming the $500K pot after a three-day marathon back-room poker game.

But it did cause the elder Holmes a pang of regret to learn that his younger brother had done it while subsisting on a cocktail of vodka, cocaine and high-strength painkillers.

* * *

 **A/N - yeah, I wasn't planning on Sherlock having one last "fling" in Vegas. And I really didn't expect Molly to be in such a state after the events of the last chapter. But that's how it turned out. But I assure you that things will look up for the next and (probably) final chapter. Thanks again for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Ok – so it's been a very long time. And I'm so sorry for neglecting my fic writing, especially my WiPs. But here's an update. And some good news – only one more chapter to go! YAY!

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

To the untrained eye, the Molly Hooper who returned to work at Bart's just two weeks after the incident in Vegas differed only slightly from the Molly who had departed. Her hair, although tied in her trademark ponytail, had not yet returned to its natural shade. The semi-permanent dye she had used to become Cindy now seemed more permanent than advertised. Her fingernails still shone with their false French tips, a luxury she could never afford or justify when her hands the better part of a day in various body cavities.

And, of course, no one could tell to look at her how close she'd come to not returning at all.

If Henderson had struck her harder.

If Smith hadn't acted when he did.

If Sherlock didn't alert the ambulance.

If this, if that, if only –

None of it wore on her face when she walked into the lab, ready to start work after receiving the all-clear from Mycroft's doctors one week after arriving back in London.

"Molly!" boomed Stamford cheerily, "How was your holiday?"

"Oh, you know," Molly hesitated, chiding herself for not preparing a better cover story. "It was great," she smiled her brightest smile, hoping it would be enough to convince Stamford.

"When I read your email asking for a few more weeks, I thought maybe you'd met someone, had some kind of holiday fling?"

Molly steeled herself, blocking out any images of the frantic, passionate coupling she'd had with Sherlock just moments before the operation fell apart.

"No, nothing like that! I just needed some more time."

With a nod, Stamford was off to give a lecture to his first-year residents. Molly spent most of the morning wading through emails. She was amazed how little attention people paid to the Out-of-Office autoreply she'd set up. Twelve frantic emails from her intern about the procedure for pituitary gland preservation; Ten invitations inter-office social events which had already come and gone; Sixteen urgent requests for bloodwork results from Tony the new lab tech.

It was well past 1 o'clock when the pain in shoulder, a constant reminder of the force with which she hit the floor, was overcome by the sharp pang of an empty stomach. She needed lunch.

If she had thought it through, she would have realised that 1 o'clock was when she usually left her stakeout as Molly and turned into Cindy. If she dared to remember, the pang of hunger pains would have felt eerily like the butterflies she had every time she went to the hotel to meet Bill. But she wouldn't have those thoughts. Not today. Today was about proving to herself that Cindy was dead, buried, left in Nevada.

She was Molly.

And Molly was definitely not avoiding Sherlock.

Not when she heard his trademark baritone in the hallway around the corner from her office. Not when she turned left instead of right as she exited her office. Not when she took the fire stairs instead of the elevator because she didn't dare wait an extra second and risk looking into those eyes and seeing-

-not Bill. Because Bill died in Nevada, too.

And even though Cindy and Bill may or may not have had a highly charged, frantic encounter in a Las Vegas Hotel room, Molly and Sherlock most certainly did not.

Or so Molly told herself. And she truly believed it.

Until she ran into Meena at the café down the street from Bart's. A café at which, Molly was well aware, that Sherlock was not welcome after offending the owner by deducing (with frightening accuracy) the number of times an hour he would sneak into the storeroom and take compulsive nips from his vodka-filled hip-flask.

Tj's Coffee shop would be a safe place for Molly to grab her lunch for the next little while. That is, if she was avoiding Sherlock, which she certainly was not.

Meena sat alone, strewn remnants of a large latte and a rocket salad in front of her as she idly checked Twitter or Facebook. Molly was happy to walk past, pretending she hadn't seen her friend when Meena looked up, her face beaming.

"Molly! Darling!" She stood, pulling Molly into a tight embrace. "I'm so glad you're back!" She lowered her tone conspiratorially, "David from accounting has been asking about you!"

Molly didn't know what look crossed her face, but Meena was the kind of infuriating friend it's impossible to hide anything from.

"I see, it's like that then?" Meena pulled away and motioned for Molly to sit down.

"Like what?" Molly tried to act casually, picking up a napkin and idly wiping the table before resting her hands on it.

"You've met someone." Meena looked so proud of herself.

Molly knew she had no other choice but to tell her friend the truth – well, a truth interspersed with lies. "Maybe I had a holiday fling," she smiled, trying to imagine if things had been different. If the man she met in Vegas wasn't a cocaine addict with a gambling problem and a regular date with a callgirl – or, more accurately, a Consulting Detective doing a far too believable job at playing a cocaine addict with a gambling problem and a regular date with a callgirl. A callgirl he did a remarkably believable job of pretending to fuck.

Not to mention the one time he wasn't pretending at all.

Meena's eyes widened, "It's serious, isn't it? I can tell. Are you going to leave us and go Stateside forever?"

Molly almost choked on the glass of water the waiter had given her "No! No way!"

"But you liked him?" Meena asked, genuinely keen to hear the answer.

Molly paused for a moment before responding. What did she feel about Sherlock now? She'd certainly progressed beyond a mere crush – seeing a dead man sit up in his body bad, covered with blood and shaking from the adrenaline from a faked fall would do that. She'd definitely progressed beyond friendship – being one's only tie to their life while they're pretending to be dead for two years forged a bond much deeper than friends. She had to admit that she loved him – and admit it to Tom, his hands open and holding her returned engagement ring as she explained to him that there wasn't anything he could have done.

Sherlock had her heart, even if he had no idea what to do with it.

And as she sat there, she realised her love for him wasn't mere sentiment – slapping him three times after a failed drug test, chastising him for throwing away the beautiful gifts he had been born with – even the very act of calling his intellect beautiful when she knew he had always seen it as a curse – these weren't the acts of someone infatuated or starry-eyed. She loved him, even when it hurt.

She loved Sherlock well before Bill and Cindy.

And she would love him long after. She knew that now.

"So," Meena prompted, "are you going to go back for him?"

Molly's lips formed a tight, sad smile. "No. There was a man, and he meant a lot to me. But he made it clear: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas."

* * *

 **A/N** Maybe a bit angsty? But I promise, only one chapter to go, and there will certainly be a happy ending!


	10. Chapter 10

A.N: The Penultimate Chapter! I'm so sorry for the delay on this. But when I think about how I've moved my family across the globe three times since beginning to write it, I think I'm entitled to a little bit a leeway - maybe? Let me know what you think my beloved Sherlollians!

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

"We need you to investigate something."

They weren't exactly Mary's first words upon setting eyes on Sherlock for the first time in months - but they just as well ought to have been. Her request came after the perfunctory greetings - hers an "I'm glad you're back" and a "thanks for keeping me in the loop" from John. Hers said sincerely; his, stern and solemn, a nod to the last time Sherlock went AWOL on his friend. But as soon as these formalities were dealt with, Mary's request, prefaced by a deep breath, was rushed out before Sherlock could even settle into the Watsons' vintage chambray settee or take a sip from the offered cup of Irish Breakfast Tea.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, surveying the pair.

Mary's urgency and the slightly clipped way she spoke showed she thought it was important. Highly. So the invitation to tea was just a pretence then. Something they wanted to talk about with him in person.

It wasn't Mycroft. God knows his brother had had his hands full of late, tying up the loose ends of their not-too-successful operation in Los Vegas, as well as dealing with Sherlock's added "complications". Complications which had cost him not one but two visits to rehab. On two different continents, no less. Not that he wanted to think about that now.

Not Mycroft. And even if it was, Sherlock was none too keen to be drawn into another one of his charades – or to see the people he loved involved again.

When did Molly Hooper become one of those? Certainly before Vegas. Definitely before Moriarty's return and subsequent second-death.

Of course Sherlock had long been aware of how completely she controlled his Mind Palace. She was of course the one who guided him though those seemingly-infinite seconds when he was on the verge of death. Sherlock rubbed his chest absently, remembering how it was not that long ago when it was pierced by a bullet from an assassin who now sat next to him on the settee offering Scones and Biscuits.

At the time, and in the months that followed, it never occurred to Sherlock in investigate himself, to find out how Molly had became the controlling and calming figure for him - nor had he ever told her that she saved his life.

Or later, when in order to discover Moriarty's plan, Sherlock took a drug-fuelled journey back to the 1900s, he never thought to question why the ringleader in his imagined syndicate of scorned suffragists was a version of Molly. A version whose cross-dressing alter-ego treated Sherlock's period persona with nothing but scorn. Certainly a far cry from the quiet unassuming pathologist he'd overlooked for so long.

In every version of his memories, she was there. Guiding, teaching, making him a better person. How long had it been since she had taken up residence in his mind so completely?

Perhaps while he was undercover in Eastern Europe. Some nights hiding out in damp, rat-infested dens he would keep himself sane by recreating the myriad tests the two of them had performed together at Barts. The lab recreated in minute detail and Molly reconstructed down to the last patterned cardigan covering a mis-matched shirt.

And if he did embellish his memories from time to time, it was certainly nothing he would admit come morning. As comforting as he found the images of Molly's eyes wide, breath ragged and lips kiss-stung during in the long nights alone he would always make sure they would soon be deleted - evaporating with the morning dew in the sun's harsh light.

He shook his head vigorously, as if brushing away the thought like one would an errant ant at a picnic.

John's tight lips showed concern, not only with the issue but with how to raise it with Sherlock. So it was somebody they knew.

Gavin's been cat-fished again. No. Sherlock had installed key logging software on all of the DI's computers as well as his phone, with sometimes amusing results and other times puzzling results. It seems someone was highly interested in something called the Game of Thrones – discussing at length something about R + L = J, a formula Sherlock had not yet been able to decode, but honestly wasn't all too concerned about.

So not Gavin then.

He was fast running out of options. Certainly not Anderson? Or Donovan? Or Anderson with Donovan?

Sherlock hadn't yet responded to Mary's request, and in the silence he caught something shared between the Watsons, part of that secret language of eye contact that is foreign to all outside the married couple.

They were worried. Not just about the person, but about how he would react to their request.

It could only be one person then.

"Mate, it's Molly."

John's tone was grave. It caused a vibration down Sherlock's vertebrae that he told himself wasn't anything other than his limbic system's response to the memory of their confrontation with Henderson. Definitely not. And definitely not the events which preceded it. Not the feel of her lips on his or her body as his wrapped his own around it or the warmth of her as his frantically claimed her as his own.

Definitely not that.

Sherlock took a slow breath as he did whenever his emotions threatened to derail his mind and leak through his façade of control and reason.

He didn't dare picture her small form in the Vegas hospital room, or the way he fought with all his strength when Mycroft's men were dragging him away. No. He'd left all those memories back in Vegas. Not that they were his to begin with. They were part of a cover, an act. The reaction in the hospital was only because the case hadn't been debriefed yet. His cover hadn't yet been entirely erased. He was still Bill, and Bill wasn't ready to see Cindy fighting for her life. It was Bill who gave Mycroft's man a black eye because he was being forcibly separated from his lover.

Or so Sherlock told himself.

John cleared his throat, bring Sherlock back into the moment.

"Is she ok?" The words came out more slowly than he would have liked. His voice wavered on the last. He took another deep breath, fighting the urge to grab his coat and fly out the door like the "drama queen" John had so often accused him of being. He paused for a moment before adding in the most casual tone he could manage, "I mean, she's not ill or injured?"

In a moment, his mind raced through all of the possibilities for post-surgery complications. Imagining them all in minute detail as he waited for the Watsons to respond.

John's nervous smile gave Sherlock instant relief.

"No, it's nothing like that. She's just-" he paused, thinking, before trying again like a man in fear of his first ten metre jump of the diving board. "She's…" he trailed off, losing his nerve at the last minute and looking at his wife to help him finish the sentence.

"She's just…" Mary, too, was struggling, staring up at the ceiling as if the answer lay in the cornices and lighting sconces. "…happy." Mary concluded, although the look on her face told Sherlock she was none too pleased with the word choice.

Sherlock couldn't stop the laugh, although he wouldn't admit that it came from the nervous energy of relief rather than of scorn for his friends' concocted issues.

He could tell his laughter was a tad too drawn out by the way John and Mary exchanged worried glances. There was much the two had perfected in the art of silent communication over the course of their marriage.

"Sorry," Sherlock began once composed again, "but you want me to investigate Molly Hooper because she's happy?"

"Well, yes, but in another way, no," Mary explained none too helpfully.

"So you don't need me to investigate Molly?" Each word was clipped, precise. His patience with the Watsons was beginning to wear thin.

John turned to Mary, "I told you this was a bad idea," said with the tone of a husband who had lost his latest in a series of marital arguments.

Mary ignored her husband's protests. She reached out, touching Sherlock on the hand as if trying to communicate where words had been failing her.

"You have to trust me, Sherlock. Molly may seem as happy as usual, maybe even happier, but I can tell something's wrong."

Sherlock began to scoff at Mary's assertion, but stopped when he felt Mrs Watson's hand tighten powerfully around his.

"Remember, Sherlock, I was a spy, I've been undercover before. I know what an act looks like, no matter how well-practiced. And I know what real emotions look like, too, no matter how hard we to hide them."

Sherlock turned, meeting Mary's piercing blue gaze. She was talking about Molly, wasn't she?

"Please mate, just see what you can find out." John added. "We know she took a month off work a little while back, and she hasn't been herself since. She'll come and visit us and play with Isabelle, but there's something…" John paused, searching for the right way to describe it. "Something missing."

Mary nodded in agreement. "She does a good show of pretending, but we really do think something happened while she was away. We just want to make sure that you've done all you can to find out what it is – and if there's anything that can be done to bring our Molly back."

Sherlock agreed, taking his leave of the Watsons, he decided to walk across town back to Baker Street.

As he walked he found his mind was running, outpacing the leisurely pace with which he wandered the London streetscapes. He loved being back home, but for some reason not even the comforting surroundings of London could calm him.

Despite the fact Molly's mood was a mystery to the Watsons, there was no such puzzle for Sherlock to solve. He knew exactly what had happened to Molly while she was away from London. He knew it all, could see it in ultra-high definition, playing on constant loop in his mind-palace in the middle of the night when in the silence of solitude didn't allow him the luxury of forgetting.

It was the image of her in hospital that haunted him during his first (swiftly-aborted) stay in rehab. It was the need to know and the worry about her health that drove him to escape in the pre-dawn hours while the changeover shift was starting and one exhausted crew was swapped for one not yet settled to begin their patrols of the hopelessly addicted and chronically relapsed.

He considered himself neither an addict nor a junkie in relapse as he confidently escaped the clinic and on his way to the Nevada hospital where he last saw Molly unconscious and in intensive care, covered by too many tubes and bruised and beaten beyond what he would ever want to remember.

Punching a window on the driver's side of a jet-black SAAB gave more relief than he'd expected. He expertly hotwired the engine to start, sending a thanks to Wiggins for those much-needed lessons, and enjoyed the adrenaline rush of speed as he rushed down the dusty highway at nearly 100 miles an hour.

He had meant to go straight to her. He wanted to be there when she woke up. Wanted to see for himself that she would be fine, that for all that had happened between them, their operation in Vegas would not cost her life or cause her any further harms.

He had planned it. Thought he'd executed it pretty well, too. Until he found himself driving not to the hospital, but to the dark, forgotten alleyways away from the famous Vegas strip. Weaving through building, warehouses and whorehouses - where tourists would fear to tread.

He didn't consciously get out of the car. He didn't mean to say the password at the back dock of a vitamin warehouse. He didn't plan to ask for a 1k stake, or to stay beyond the first few wins. He didn't even realise he'd done the line of coke until the blessed stimulant lit up his system, making his heart pump harder in his chest and bringing a focus he hadn't felt for days – not since the moment his lips captured hers in that hotel room.

But in that moment, he wasn't Sherlock worried about Molly, not a man haunted by memories of his lover's her sighs and her moans and his pleasure in burying himself in her. He was an addict, a gambler, a man in blissed denial that someone he cared about was in a nearby hospital.

No. He wasn't Sherlock. He wasn't Bill either. In that moment, his whole world was reduced to a series of colours red and black, shapes of diamonds and hearts and numbers, Jacks and Aces.

The universe of the deck was far more simple than the world of work, or the mess of his mind-palace which Molly had somehow come in and overtaken – piece by piece, until there was nothing inside his mind that she did not know, no secret that she didn't have access to, nothing she did not guide him through.

The next line of coke didn't hit him like it usually did, but instead struck him with the unpleasant and vivid memory of Molly's hand slapping his face – one, two, three times in quick succession.

He had already come to his senses when Mycroft and his men busted down the door.

What he hadn't realised was that he had been playing cards in that room for over three days.

What troubled him the most wasn't the loss of time, nor the relapse, nor the thousands of dollars he left on the table. It was the first words he said to Mycroft.

"Where's Cindy?"

He didn't need Mycroft to tell him. The look on his face was more than enough.

"Where's Molly?" he replied, pretending he hadn't for a moment forgotten the line between himself and Bill. And Molly and Cindy.

Sherlock didn't remember being dragged from the poker table and into the back of Mycroft's awaiting black limousine. But he did remember his brother's first words to him.

"We need to debrief you, little brother," said sternly, factually as the limousine winded its the way to one of his brother's State-side offices. The official American home of his unofficial British Government.

"Wonderful! More mind-fuckery, I suppose?" His eyes narrowed, but his brother's reaction was imperceptible, "Don't you think you've done enough already?" He knew his mood would be considered by Mycroft as part of his comedown from the high of the drugs and the adrenaline of the cards, but he was wrong. The memory of Molly slapping him made him feel more sober than he'd been in months.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," came Mycroft's indignant response.

Sherlock scoffed, just as he had when they were children, when fights were small and petty and didn't come with death tolls or grave injuries.

"What I'm talking about, brother, is the reason why on earth was I sent in there in the first place? Why use me when you had Smith at the centre of the whole operation? Any why drag Molly half way across the globe if not to mess with me?"

"You think too highly of yourself, little brother," Mycroft scoffed.

"Then why?" Sherlock persisted. He held Mycroft's gaze, daring him to waver, to look away. Sherlock would never blink, never waiver. It was always the one thing he would have over his brother.

"Smith is CIA, his passport – if we were to have one – would read as a veritable map of national and international hotspots over the last two decades. But since he joined Henderson's operation five years ago, his allegiances have not been so clear. We didn't know if we could trust him."

Mycroft's words made the mysteries of the last few months fall away, finally, Sherlock has the Rosetta stone he needed to translate the code.

"I wasn't playing Henderson. I was playing Smith."

Mycroft's lips turning into a mockery of a grin. "I thought that was obvious. The world is indeed full of goldfish, isn't it?"

The car slowed, turning towards a tall, nondescript office tower. The kind used by accountancy firms, or lawyers. There was no way of knowing from the outside that the Western world could be brought to its knees from a small corner office inside.

Mycroft made no show of moving once the limousine stopped. The door opened, and Anthea appeared, ready to escort Sherlock.

Sherlock made to leave, before pausing to ask Mycroft one more question.

"But Molly? Why her?"

Mycroft paused thoughtfully, a small sign of compassion crossing his face, an emotion almost imperceptible if not for Sherlock's awareness of the oddity.

"As for Miss Hooper," Mycroft shared a glance with Anthea before continuing. "Well, I think I'll leave you to your own deductions."

Sherlock's reward for toeing the line throughout Mycroft's 20 hour debriefing was a blessed reprieve from the harsh light of America. There was only one further condition placed on him: he had to agree to one further, stay in rehab – this time on English soil.

Between landing at Heathrow and boarding a train to the clinic in the Cotswolds, Sherlock found himself with a few hours spare. He had planned to head to Baker Street, to pick up his violin and a few books to stave off boredom – something in the realm of 19th century phrenology or investigative uses of lead in health treatment – books which predated findings which discredited both practices.

Sometimes the discredited sciences gave him confidence in that which can be proven, that which he knew as fact.

But instead of arriving at Baker Street, Sherlock found himself in his "home from home" as Mycroft had once called it. Bart's.

His phone rang as he headed down the hallway towards the Morgue – it was Mycroft.

"I trust you are on-route to the Cotswolds, little brother?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, forgetting for a moment there was no-one to share his frustration with. "Of course. I just had some errands to run."

"Interesting terminology you use," came Mycroft's reply, clearly revealing the elder Holmes' knowledge of the younger Holmes' current whereabouts. Sherlock was about to make a snide remark befitting a younger-brother when caught out by the elder, but Mycroft cut him off.

"Whatever you have planed with your errand" he stressed the word sarcastically, "it is essential you check in at the clinic by 8pm this evening."

"Yes. Fine." And he hung up. He hadn't even pocketed his phone before he heard slight footsteps that could only belong to a women of five feet two inches, one who had definitely heard his voice and, from the speed of her gait was almost certainly speeding away in the opposite direction.

Molly wasn't ready to see Sherlock.

Sherlock wasn't even sure how he was ready to be himself again.

He left Bart's and headed straight to rehab where he stayed his allotted 40 days and nights.

If Bart's was his first port of call before rehab, it was fitting that it was also where he found himself again that afternoon just hours after his meeting with the Watsons. Walking down the hallway with a mind full of questions and the hope that one woman was able to answer them.

* * *

A/N - One more chapter to go! It's only a short one. Shouldn't take too long to write - as long as I can stay in the same hemisphere for long enough to get it written!


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** As promised - an ending. In fact, this is my first completed Multi-Chapter fic!  
Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed and showed the love. It means a lot!

* * *

It had been over five weeks since Molly had returned to work. Five weeks of autopsies, blood tests, ph analysis and chemical spectrographs. Five weeks of home-cooked dinners, and while she didn't relish eating alone, she was finding real food a blessed relief after the room-service diet she and Anthea had been subsisting of while surveilling Sherlock.

Sherlock.

It had been almost weeks since her return to work and the near-run in with him in the darkened hallway. And no sign of him since.

She didn't dare raise the detective's absence with the Watsons, instead choosing to focus on the fast-growing Isabelle and the latest cute thing she was doing. Yesterday, Molly was firsthand witness to Isabelle's new favourite game - picking up duplo blocks and pretending to use them as mobile phones. Molly watched for nearly five minutes as the industrious 18 month old pantomime-acted texting and talking into the plastic rectangle just as she had seen her parents doing.

"Once I caught her yelling 'shut up you git!' down the phone. There's no point guessing who she heard that from." Mary gestured with her eyes towards her husband who seemed too concentrated on his phone to respond.

Molly didn't dare take the bait. No matter how hard she had worked to compartmentalise all that she had been through in Vegas, she was still not ready to practice her resolve, especially not in front of Sherlock's two best friends.

Instead, Molly did as she had for the last month, smiled warmly and spoke of happier things – the beginning of summer, the latest events in her family, the new episode of Outlander. Anything she could feign an interest in enough to distract herself from thinking of what happened in Vegas.

That was all in the past. Molly had erased Cindy leaving her behind with her costume in Vegas. Fishnets, high heels and sexy lingere were all abandoned when the operation went south, and Molly was not tempted to recreate to wardrobe back in London.

Costume gone. Act over.

Of course, there was the matter of healing, and that took time.

But as she packed up and readied herself to head home after work the next day, Molly realised it had been almost 24 hours since she last thought about Bill. Or Sherlock. Neither of them had crossed her mind all day.

Of course the moment she realised it, not only was the spell broken, but the mere thought was almost powerful enough to the man appear in the flesh.

* * *

The lab was dark. Molly could hear the echo of her shoes on the linoleum. The back-lit cabinets provided unearthly glows and dark contrasting shadows in the areas their light couldn't reach.

She thought she was alone as she headed towards the office to grab her coat and bag and head home.

"Who am I?" A deep baritone voice shocked her, causing her to jump and her heartrate to soar. She'd know that voice anywhere, even if the man it belonged to was still hiding in the shadows, lurking the lab just as he had done the night before he'd told her he thought he was going to die.

Fear forgotten, she headed towards the source, even if she still couldn't make him out in the gloom.

"What?"

"Who am I?" He repeated, his voice more forceful, yet his tone much more uncertain.

She didn't provide an answer, instead answering his question with a question. "Who do you think you are?"

"I don't know. Am I an addict?"

Molly responded the only way she knew how: with the truth.

"Yes."

"A Junkie?"

"Yes."

"A compulsive gambler?"

"Yes."

"A Liar?"

"Yes."

Each word he said was laced with such venom. Each response from Molly, such patience and grace.

"Who do you think I am, Molly?" voice hoarse, emotions raw.

She paused, surveying his face in the dark glow of the lab. Taking a moment to consider her response.

"You are Sherlock Holmes."

Her response was meant to comfort him, but the look on his face was so pained, it was as if she had knifed him with a dagger so sharp, a wound so mortal.

"And who is Sherlock Holmes?"

Molly had never seen him so lost, not even when he came to her the last time in that lab, so alone, so uncertain.

She swallowed, steeling herself before replying.

"Sherlock Holmes is all of those things – addict, junkie, gambler, liar," statements of fact, each of them. Molly reached out, placing a gentle hand on his chin, tilting his face up to meet hers.

"You may be all those things, Sherlock, but you're far greater than the sum of them."

Sherlock's eyes closed, he inhaled deeply as if breathing for the first time after almost drowning.

"Thank you." He whispered, his hand touching hers as is still rested on his face, removing it and interlacing their fingers.

"Sherlock?" Molly began, snapping him back to reality, "Who am I?"

He smiled broadly.

"You're Molly Hooper. You always were."

Six words, and an acknowledgement that what happened in Vegas wouldn't stay there.

* * *

 **Coda**

John Watson directed the cab to stop right outside 221b. He considered bounding up the stairs, barging down the door, and demanding why Sherlock had gone off the radar again.

It had been five days since John and Mary had shared their concerns about Molly and ask that Sherlock investigate. Now neither the detective nor his target had been heard from since.

Well, John corrected himself, that wasn't entirely accurate. There was a cryptic email from Molly to Mike Stamford about needing to take "personal leave" for the remainder of the week. And Mrs Hudson did tell John about a terse phone call she received from her tenant the night after his visit to John's. According to the landlady, Sherlock had all but demanded she take the train to visit her sister in Cornwall while he was working on a "highly sensitive case," as she put it.

The details of the phonecall were recounted to John in a tone of shock and offence which could not hide the infinite patience and love John knew Mrs Hudson felt for Sherlock deep-down. A demand which was not received too favourably by Mrs Hudson but was soon smoothed over by Sherlock's offer to pay the first-class train fair as well as provide his landlady with 500 pounds spending money – all charged to Mycroft's expense account, as John would later discover when he called the elder Holmes looking for any signs of the younger one. When John pressed for more details, there was a muted sound on the other side of the call which he could almost have mistaken for laughter, if he didn't know Mycroft hadn't laughed in years.

But, as he arrived at Baker Street that afternoon, Mycroft's final words rang in John's ears.

"Proceed with caution. You might not be prepared for what you discover."

John cursed the Holmes family trait for theatrics, puzzles and cryptic messages, but respected Mycroft enough to tread lightly when warned.

Instead of bounding up the stairs, yelling ahead of himself the myriad curse-words that were running though his mind, John walked calmly, barely making a sound. Instead of knocking, John used the key he had had ever since moving in and had never bothered to return to his friend.

It was only when he turned the corner into the kitchen that the true meaning of Mycroft's warning was revealed.

There, John was met with a sight more extraordinary than anything he'd ever seen in Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes, hair astray, stubble grown at least a week's length, clad only in pyjama pants was wrapped in a passionate embrace with Molly Hooper, herself showing signs of time recently spend in bed – not only with her hair wild and loose around her shoulders, but the fact that she was clad in only a bedsheet (from what John could tell at a quick glance).

Both of them blissfully unaware that their private moment had been intruded on.

Sherlock broke the kiss, stepping back and looking deeply into the petite pathologist's eyes.

"I love you Molly Hooper."

John never thought he'd hear Sherlock declare his love for anything other than the puzzle, the chase or the game. More surprising to John, however, was the look of pure joy on the detective's face as he said it.

Looking into her beloved's face, Molly smiled, a truly happy smile. John hadn't seen Molly like this in months.

"I love you too Sherlock Holmes," she replied.

John very quietly backed away, returning as swiftly and as silently out of Baker Street as he had arrived. He knew there was a story behind the strange events of the past few months. But it was one he was willing to hear about another time.

* * *

 **A/N:** Done! Phew! Now, on to another one of my WiPs. Feel free to drop me a line to tell me which one you think I should work on next!


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